A Rose By Any Other Name
by argonis
Summary: Based on the Justice League animated episode "A Better World." Told from Lord Batman's POV. Warning: dark and rather violent.
1. Part I

Author's note: This story is based on the Justice League animated series episode _A Better World_. To sum it up, what would happen if the JL decided to use deadly force? 

It is told from Lord Batman's point of view. He is not a happy person; thus this is not a particularly happy story. It's dark and very violent and has sexual situations. People die. If you are too young or immature to understand the difference between make-believe and reality, you may not read this. Otherwise, go for it. 

I use the term 'story' loosely; structurally it's not much of a story, just a series of scenes rattling around in my head that I somehow strung together. 

I hope you enjoy. 

__

_A Rose by Any Other Name_

_Part I_

It began with a man named Harry Knuckles. That wasn't his real name, just a moniker that described his penchant for using brass knuckles in his line of work. In the grand scheme of things he was a nobody, a common thug with a rudimentary knowledge of street fighting and a body honed in prison gyms. But in some ways, Harry Knuckles was the one who started it all. 

He was the first person I killed. 

***

_One year ago…_

We had finally stopped the ICBMs. The last one was sprawled harmlessly in the dirt, guidance and flight chips ripped out of its body. The nuclear payload would be carefully removed and then returned to the Pentagon. 

But first…

"Luthor," Superman growled with such hatred that I turned to him. His eyes were reddened slits. 

I was taken aback by the look on his face, but he was gone before I could say anything. The red and blue blur headed east, towards Washington. 

I looked at Diana. "I'll get the jet—" I began.

"No time." She grabbed me and pulled me close. Even in this situation I could appreciate the feel of her body pressing against  the Kevlar I wore. She was sweating and singed in places, her clothing torn, but she was beautiful. 

We reached the White House in minutes. There was an enormous hole in the roof of the building. A Secret Service agent toting a hand-held rocket launcher shouted something at us, then opened fire. A puff of smoke was followed by the whine of a Stinger anti-air missile as it barreled towards us. 

Years of working as a team allowed us to communicate without speaking. Diana dropped me without having to ask; my grapple was already out and firing. I landed on the roof and took down the agent with two quick blows to the head. Above me I heard a thunderous boom as Diana disposed of the missile. 

We entered the crevice together. Men with guns were swarming everywhere. They caught sight of me and opened fire. 

Diana was already in front of me, her slender arms a blur as she deflected bullets left and right. Holes appeared as if by magic as bullets ricocheted off walls. A portrait of Lincoln was torn to shreds. 

"Listen to me!" she tried to shout above the roar of automatic weapons fire. "Luthor launched nukes! We're here to stop him—we don't want to fight you!" 

They didn't listen. Secret Service agents are trained for one thing, to defend the president against any and all threats, however justified they might be. A single-mindedness of purpose not too different from that of a superhero. 

More agents were approaching. My hand went to my belt, third pocket on the right. 

"Ears!" I shouted to Diana. She took cover, hands clasped firmly over her ears as I retrieved a beeping bat. I hurled it into the mass of our assailants. 

The sonic wave dropped most of them to the ground, writhing as they gripped their heads. My audioscopes had adjusted to block out the frequency. 

Blood was trickling out of some of the agents' ears. The device shut off—it was meant to incapacitate, not to kill. More Secret Service rushed in, and we closed in hand to hand combat. 

Three veered for me, a dozen to Diana. I ignored the slight and met my three head on. Secret Service agents are well-trained; these three lasted just over twenty seconds. 

I was on my back, having hurled an agent over my body into the wall behind us. A silver bangle appeared in my vision; I grunted and took Diana's hand. 

She pulled me to my feet. "Thanks," I said. My nose wrinkled. Something smelled like…

I blinked uncertainly. "Do you…smell something?" 

She sniffed the air. Her eyes widened. 

*** 

Diana and I stared at the charred lump sitting at the desk in the Oval Office. Clark was gazing out the window, his back to us. The air was filled with the nauseating stench of burnt meat.

"Well," I said finally. What could I say? "It had to be done." 

Diana went to him, touched his shoulder. "Are you ok?

Clark turned to face us. 

He had just killed for the first time ever in his life. I expected to see remorse, horror, grief on his face for what he did, for what he had had to do. 

"I'm great."

What I didn't expect was the smile. 

*** 

And so it began, the reformation of the Justice League into the Justice Lords. The first few months were the hardest, as villains from every corner of the globe realized what we were intent on doing and launched a crime spree that taxed us to our limits. 

The Flash was killed in one such uprising, by a group of villains who called themselves the Secret Society.

I think his death is what drove the Green Lantern, Jon Stewart, to action. He hammered Sinestro, a member of the Society, to the ground and ignored the pleas for mercy. Killing wasn't very hard for the trained Marine. 

Shayera—Hawkgirl—was next. She was a smash-first-ask-questions-later cop from an already-warlike people, and I imagine taking that step was simple. 

Then it was J'onn's turn. Being alien, I believe he weighed the costs of human life against what we were hoping to achieve, and found the terms acceptable. 

Diana was last among them. Maybe it was honor, maybe a memory of her original purpose in coming to Man's World. In the end, though, a warrior's practicality dictated her actions. I believe she was the most distraught of us all. 

I held out the longest. My methods were already considered brutal and closer to killing than any of them had been before. Maybe I didn't think it was necessary. Or maybe I was just unwilling to violate that last rule, cross that last boundary. Or maybe it was Alfred, the main stabilizing influence in my life. 

Until he died. 

*** 

Sometime during the midst of our great purge, the Joker had discovered my identity. He and his gang broke into Wayne Manor while I was on the Watchtower. My alarms went off immediately, but it still took me a few minutes to arrive. 

Alfred lay dead on a stairwell when I got there. I stared at his bloodied form. At least it didn't look like he had suffered; the bullet holes were in his head and chest. HA HAs were painted on the walls in what looked like Alfred's blo--

It is not a pleasant memory. 

I remember my body shaking as I left the room. My next actions were almost dreamlike, as I tracked the Joker to his lair. 

***

The gang of toughs guarding the place took moments to cripple. None of them would walk again. Most would be unable to chew solid food. 

I stalked into the warehouse, the angel of death finally come for its victim. Well, not quite—I had not killed anyone. Yet. 

Then I saw him. 

The white-skinned clown sat merrily on his makeshift throne, giggling as I entered the room. Something came over me, made me see things clearer than ever before. 

Enough. 

His bodyguard—though I didn't know the name at the time—was a street thug named Harry. Harry charged at me, brass knuckles gleaming, while the Joker howled in glee. 

I didn't even look at Harry, continued walking toward my greatest enemy. The laughter echoed in the huge room. 

Harry lunged. My fist moved of its own accord, jammed the bone and cartilage in his face back into his brain, killing him instantly. I didn't break my stride, continued on to my real target. 

The laughter stopped. 

"Bats, you…" The Joker stared at me, then at Harry's prone form. Then back to me. "You…killed him." There was shock in his voice. 

"It's a joke…right?" he asked uneasily. He seemed to convince himself it was, as his shoulders straightened. "Hah! Very funny, Batsy! Is he in on it too? Did he—"

My first punch broke his jaw. He flew into a wall of stacked crates. I was on top of him in an instant, ignoring the splinters of wood that rained on my face. 

I knew what I had to do. The same realization that Clark had come to, after facing his nemesis for the last time. And in many ways, the Joker was worse than Lex Luthor. 

"Bats…"

I thought of Sarah Gordon and it wasn't as hard. Sarah, shot and killed by the Joker in an attempt to drive Jim insane. A life that was gone forever. 

Chips of his teeth clung to my fist when I brought it up again. 

"…you're…not…"

I thought of Barbara and it became even simpler. Batgirl, shot and paralyzed by the Joker before he tortured her. A zest and love for life that ended. 

A nose crunched under my knuckles. 

"…not…glh…joking…"

I thought of Jason and it was almost easy. The second Robin, tortured and killed by the Joker. A life cut far too short. 

Cheekbones snapped and caved in.

"…are you…?"

I looked at him, fist cocked. Blood dripped from my gauntlet onto the stone floor. His face was a pulped mess, shards of bone protruding from the chalk-white skin. 

"No," I said. 

A bloody bubble popped on his lips. "Well, then…" he gurgled through his shattered face. Given the extent of his injuries, I wasn't sure how he could still talk. 

I thought of Alfred and I could almost enjoy it. Alfred, my butler, my father, my friend. Enough. 

"…it's…not…"

No more. 

"…funny…anymore…"

No more, ever. 

"…is it…?"

My fist came down.

***

I didn't actually kill him. I put him into a coma for two months, during which Clark lobotomized him. Clark was getting good at it now. A glow of the eyes, a faint burning smell, and it was over. 

A "rehabilitated" Joker became the warden of the new Arkham Asylum. I stayed away from that place as much as possible; seeing him in that state gave me a nauseating feeling. 

But I didn't kill him. 

So in the end, the one who started it all was Harry Knuckles. 

*** 

Diana first came to me after the news of the Justice Lords traveled to Themyscira and they revoked her title and privileges. She was ordered to return home, but refused. They sent a contingent of Amazons after us. The contingent didn't survive. 

Her face was wet when she stepped into the Batcave that night. I was startled, having been brooding over the issue, but immediately went to her. She cried into my shoulder for almost an hour. I stood there in silence, trying to comfort her but not knowing how. 

Then she kissed me. 

That was the first night we slept together. No--we did no sleeping. 'Made love' isn't the correct term either; there was very little love involved. It was…fucking, I suppose, raw passion driven by a fury of emotion and desire. 

She would show up, we wouldn't speak, and we would fuck. Speech was generally unnecessary in our battles and that carried over to the bedroom. 

We knew each other very well. 

It was always rough, but I could tell when she had been forced to bloody her hands earlier, and she I. Our passions were more arduous as we tried to drive out our demons, those I was finally facing and those she never knew she had. If she hadn't been nigh-invincible I would probably have left some bruises. As it was, I received several. They were accidental, for the most part. 

When we were done, she would gather her things and go, all without saying a word. 

***

We continued employing our new methods to devastating effect. Each criminal captured was a criminal that was no more. Crime dropped at an exponential rate. 

The Justice Lords were not simply a license to kill or to use deadly force. It was an entire paradigm shift, a decision that the ends justified the means—any means. And things became much easier. Once a villain was dead, that was it. No more breakouts. No more worries about prison terms or lawyers or parole. If someone did something wrong, he would not live long enough to do it again. 

Within a few months, Clark had a private meeting with the new president. The shaken man came out of the room and announced that martial law would be imposed over the world, until the Justice Lords deemed the situation completely in hand. We began enforcing the new policy that day. 

The initial public outcry was loud and harsh. But with misdemeanors punishable by twenty years in prison and felonies resulting in on the spot executions, they too were quelled. 

Gotham City became a bright town again. Citizens were no longer afraid to walk the streets at any hour—as long as they obeyed all the laws. They no longer had to fear muggings, or supervillains, or crime of any sort. Only us. 

*** 

Dick was the first to leave. 

With the Justice Lords in charge and the massive decrease in crime, there was no need for other metahuman teams. Young Justice, Teen Titans, all those groups I termed the "Wonder Kids" were even more useless than before. They were decommissioned and disbanded. Some hung around. Most just drifted back into society, careful to live their lives as law-abiding citizens lest we show up. A few fought against us, with dismal results. 

Dick was one of those. 

We had our confrontation on a building rooftop one night. Dick didn't agree with the Lords' actions. 

"All my life you taught me differently," he accused me. "How can you throw it all away now? How could you do this?!"

I just looked at him. How to explain what had changed? Was it Alfred dying? The Flash? Luthor? Or just a realization that what we had been doing was useless, and this new way would be better for everyone involved? 

I was saying something about the ends justifying the means when he spat on the ground. 

"Bullshit," he said. "I'm not having any part of this."

So he left. 

Barbara went with him. She had tried many times to convince me to rethink my ways, all to no avail. She sent me a tearful message on the night she left, begging me to forgive her. I did. She loved Dick; I could understand. Maybe. I might have felt something like that, long before. 

They were out of my life. The others of the Batclan followed. 

*** 

Bane charged. 

The batarangs that hit him were coated with a paralyzing poison. With his mass, he wouldn't feel anything close to the full effect, but it would slow him down. 

I barely avoided his punch. Brick turned to powder under the force of the blow. Fully doped up, Bane had close to metahuman strength levels. 

But the near-miss was intentional; a hypodermic syringe was in my hand. I jammed it into his chest and slammed the piston down. It was filled with an enzyme called contratezymine, which would catalyze the venom derivative and stop the flow of blood to his heart. 

He staggered back as the drug hit him. His eyes went wide. 

"Batman…"he gasped in his Hispanic accent, clutching his chest. He was already going into cardiac arrest. "You would…do…such a…thing?" 

His body spasmed and he keeled over; four hundred pounds of pure muscle hit the ground. 

I walked away. It would be over in under a minute. 

But I didn't have to watch. 

***

Diana continued her visits, upped them to several times a month. It became a routine: she would come to the Cave, usually when one or the other of us had been driven to kill. It was a way to ease the flood of emotion that came with our actions. 

We rarely spoke in our time together, never during sex. Our relations outside of the cave were cordial but brisk. 

After a particularly rough but satisfying session we lay there tangled in sweat-soaked sheets. I expected her to rise from the bed as usual, get dressed, and leave. 

Instead, she turned to me. 

"Bruce," she said. I turned to look at her. She had not used my name in a long time. Now more than ever, I was only Batman to the world. 

"What?" 

"Do you think…what we're doing. Do you think it's right?" She was lying on her side facing me, head propped on her hand. She had cut her hair shorter; I wasn't sure if I liked it. 

We had never spoken of the Lords' actions. The silence was awkward. I was tempted to make a flippant reply; the subject was not something I wanted to spend more time dwelling upon. But I knew she was waiting—hoping—for something more, for some meaning to what we were doing. 

I had nothing to give her. 

"Yes," I said at last. The whole truth was more complicated than that, but it was enough. Her face fell. Apparently she didn't think so. 

We argued for hours. The argument grew heated, on the verge of resulting in blows. Finally, she gathered her things and left, without saying another word. As she walked out, I felt like I had lost something important, though at the time I wasn't sure what.

She never came back. 

***

So now I brood in the Cave, truly alone, bereft of anyone and everyone who might have at one time cared for me. My parents are long dead. Alfred is dead. Dick is gone, probably dead. Barbara, Tim, Cassandra, Dinah, the same. Selina is in prison for life. Talia was executed with her father. 

And Diana has never come back.

I sit alone in the Cave. I rarely leave it anymore; the streets of Gotham are safe even without my presence. The world is safe; the Lords do not act much, and the few times they do, I am unnecessary. 

It is easier to kill a man than to plot a way to take him down.

So I pore over the computer, watching and studying and learning. I research wormholes and temporal anomalies. I discover the possibilities of overlapping universes, identical in every way. 

And then I find one. 

*** 

_[The ensuing story can be found in Justice League episode: A Better World. Quick summary: the Justice Lords trick the League and trap them in the Lords' world. Then the Lords go to the League's world and begin their iron rule there. Back in the Lords' world, the League free themselves and the two Batmen confront each other.]_

***

I stare at the black clad figure wearing my suit of a year ago. He stares back at me, his eyes unreadable behind the dark cowl. 

The man facing me is…me. He knows everything I do, and I know everything he has planned. 

Everything. Including our weapons. My body is a blur as I prepare my defenses. What would I do when faced against a foe as dangerous as Batman?

I would start with hypersonics first. My hand goes to my ear, taps a button hidden in the cowl. My audioscopes whir as they shut out the frequencies I use on my sonic explosives. I see him perform the exact same motion. 

Flashbangs next. My lenses darken to anticipate the act. From across the room, I see the telltale flicker of his own lenses, indicating he has done the same. 

Then gas. My hand goes to the first pocket on the right, where my gas mask is stored. His does the same. We both have masks in our hands when we stop and stare at each other. The absurdity of the situation strikes me; it is literally fighting a mirror. 

Maybe it is me, or perhaps it is him. It is hard to tell. One of us—both of us—laugh. 

No toys, then. He—I—we charge and close in hand to hand combat. The only noise comes from our grunts and the sound of fists striking flesh. After just a few movements it becomes obvious that neither of us will win without a good deal of luck.

The Batmen don't believe in luck. 

We disengage and he vanishes into the gloom of the cavern. 

*** 

_[Lord Batman is finally convinced that what he has been doing is wrong. He frees the League and helps them back to their world, where they defeat the Lords and send them back to the Lords' own world.]_

*** 

So now I sit in the Batcave, waiting for them. They will have returned from the alternate dimension. They will know what I have done. And they will come for me, out for blood.

I can imagine the solemn meeting where they decide my fate—in other words, whether or not to kill me. Superman will vote yes. J'onn, no. The others I am unsure of—I allow myself the foolishly romantic notion that Diana will say no—but the 'yes's will win out. So they will come. 

A tremendous pounding jars the cave, almost like an earthquake. I smile. 

They have arrived. 


	2. Part II

_A Rose By Any Other Name_

_Part II_

They have arrived. 

Let them come. I look forward to the contest. The strongest metahumans in the world versus the Bat. 

One way or another, this will be my final stand. 

***

That pounding would be Superman assaulting the manor. Let him tear the place down; I don't care. I haven't set foot into the mansion for nearly a year. The Bruce Wayne persona has long been obsolete. 

But Superman's attack is not the main one; I have coached them in tactics for too long for that. This is merely a diversion. Another team, probably Jon and Shayera, will be coming up from below. And J'onn will be scouting me. 

Indeed, my sensors tell me something is in the air. I speak into the darkness.

"Come down, J'onn. Don't insult me."

The air coalesces into the green form of the Martian. J'onn floats to the ground and nods at me. 

"I am sorry, Batman," he says. Out of all the Lords, J'onn probably empathizes with me the most. And I with him.

"I'm sorry, too," I reply, truly meaning it. 

And then I burn him. 

Or more correctly, I blast him with nanites that cling to his body and set off a chemical reaction that ignites his skin. Leftovers from the Protocols. 

I have been projecting thoughts of defeat and surrender to conceal my true intentions from the telepath, and my offensive catches him off guard. He screams, an awful sound, as he burns. 

I kick him, hard enough to daze, then shove his burning form into a specially prepared containment chamber. It is constantly fed with oxygen. He loses cohesion of his body, forming into strange, twisted, shapes as the fire continues. 

"I'm sorry," I say again to the screaming mass. He will not die, but while the fire lasts he will not be a threat. 

I return to my seat and wait for my next opponent.

*** 

It turns out to be Superman. Fitting that the two of us finally meet, alone, on the field of battle, with nothing but our respective strengths. And weaknesses. 

His eyes are daggers as he glares at me. He notices J'onn and snarls. 

"Traitor," he accuses. 

"To our mockery of a League," I agree. 

He doesn't like that answer. "We did what we had to do."

"And I do what I have to." 

He nods grudgingly, an equal giving respect to an equal. "So do I." His voice grows distant. "Batman. You are guilty of treason. The punishment is death." The words we have spoken to so many others in the past two years. 

He crouches and prepares to spring. It will take him less than an eyeblink to crush my head.

"Clark," I say before he leaps. He stops—I have not called him that in almost a year. I owe him this much. "You know who I am. You know _what _I am." 

He looks at me, puzzled.

My hand is at my belt. "You know what I do." 

His eyes narrow and he races toward me, too fast for me to react and press down on the button I'm fingering. But I started pressing before he had even begun moving. Even so, his hands are already wrapped around my throat, choking the life out of me.

Then the lights go on. 

Four Kryptonite lamps I have jury-rigged together in the past hour cast their emerald glow on us. Clark gasps; his iron grip immediately weakens. He strains to finish crushing my windpipe, and almost succeeds. But he finally staggers back, the poisonous green ore draining his strength. 

I choke and cough when I try to speak. Something is definitely broken. 

But I am alive.

And now I open another compartment in my belt and pull out a tiny green ring, slip it onto my finger. Clark's eyes widen as I approach him. 

***

I wish I could say I fought and defeated all of them, that the human triumphed over the group of metas out for his blood. It would make for a good story. 

But the Justice Lords are not a storybook enemy. Once set in their ways, there is not a force on Earth that could stop them. Certainly not a Bat whose head, they decided, would look better separated from his shoulders. 

As it was, I came very close. Shayera and Jon arrive right after Superman falls. I neutralize Hawkgirl with intricate traps of grappling tasers and electrified nets. 

Jon is harder; I have no direct counter to the cosmic power of his ring. He chases me throughout the cave, his constructs sniffing me out no matter where I hide. A green boulder crushes my arm; a sword drives into my leg. I dig deep into my assortment of gadgets and toys to hold him off, but he is winning. 

So I attack him indirectly. He loves Shayera; they have probably been sleeping together. In the past, I would have known such things as part of my dossiers on my teammates. Now, I don't care enough to bother. 

"Listen to me," I shout during a pause in our fighting. I point to where Shayera is wrapped in a metallic coil, and hold up a beeping remote. "I press this, explosives in the coil go off and she dies. You can save her and get out of here, or you can finish me." 

He does love her; the moment of hesitation costs him. I have positioned us so the Batplane is right behind him, ordnance ready, and my fingers are already at work. 

I press the remote, which does nothing but emit a loud bang and a harmless cloud of smoke from Shayera's trap. But it looks like she is hurt. Jon's shields drop as he rushes to her aid. 

The Batplane fires its missiles and the canisters of chemicals find their target. The first volley stuns him; the next renders him unconscious. 

I try to catch my breath. The fighting has taken its toll. My suit is ragged; blood flows from a dozen wounds. I feel lightheaded. But I have won—

And then something hits me from behind. 

My head snaps back as I fall. I catch a glimpse of short black hair and a red bodysuit. Diana. 

Stupid, I tell myself as the world goes black. 

Never trust anyone. 

***

I awaken groggily. I can't move. Everything hurts. 

I find myself chained to a set of restraints usually reserved for metahuman prisoners. Not that they are needed; my whole body feels broken. I could no more escape than I could lift a building over my head. 

The Lords—most of who _can_ lift buildings over their heads—are gathered around a table in the Batcave, facing me as if they were a judging panel. Or more correctly, a firing squad. All of them are alive and well; none of my countermeasures were lethal. 

Too bad, I think in a moment of bitterness. 

Diana is seated at the left edge of the table. She doesn't look at me. Superman is in the middle. He looks furious. 

"Batman," he says once they realize I am awake. "I'll make this simple. You are guilty of the crimes of treason, malfeasance, deadly assault, and attempted murder." 

I stare at him without flinching. "We were wrong," I say. I look at Diana; she will not return my gaze. "What we did was wrong." 

Superman doesn't respond to my remark. "The penalty for your crimes is death." His normally blue orbs begin to glow red.

I close my eyes and wait to die. 

***

A few moments later, I realize I am still alive. 

I open my eyes and see Diana in front of me, her bracers deflecting Superman's heat vision into the ground. The rays are bubbling stone.

"Diana!" Superman is on his feet, along with the rest of the Lords. "What are you doing?!" 

"Enough, Kal," she says. "I will not watch him die, too." 

"He is a traitor!" 

"We were wrong," she tells him. Her voice is trembling. "I was wrong. All those people we killed…Hera…"

"If you help a traitor, then you share his fate." 

She stares at him, then looks back at me. She must see something in my eyes, for her voice grows strong. "So Hera help me, I do."

Superman blurs. His fist smashes into Diana before she can react; the impact of her body craters the ground. But she's on her feet in an eyeblink, and the two strongest metas on Earth go at it. The cave shakes with their blows. 

J'onn phases into the floor and tries to separate them, to little avail. 

Shayera and Stewart alternate between staring at me and watching the contest of strength in awe. 

"We were wrong," I tell them.

"We did what we had to do!" Stewart roars, his ring blazing. 

The ceiling is beginning to crumble from the force of Superman and Diana's blows. I ignore the dust that drifts onto my face. "The ends do not justify the means. Not those means. Not ever." 

Superman pounds Diana into the ground. His fists are jackhammers as he crushes her head into the rock. She snaps her head back, butts him in the stomach, then follows with a series of punches and kicks that fling him into the wall. The cave shakes. 

Stewart growls. "You knew the rules. You broke them." A green rifle forms in his hands. 

"I did what I had to do. What was _right_!" 

I struggle uselessly at my bonds as he hefts the rifle. "You betrayed us!" 

"We can _not _kill people to justify our course!" 

"You _do not _betray your unit!" The rifle is aimed at my face. 

"_We were wrong_!" I shout. 

He pulls the trigger.

Bullets spit out of the muzzle, but suddenly disappear. Stewart gives a strangled cry, his constructs disappearing as he loses concentration. 

Shayera stands behind him, mace crackling. 

"I'm sorry, my love," she whispers, as he slumps to the ground. She glares at me. 

I nod. "Thank you." 

"I'm not doing it for you," she says angrily. She stalks off toward the two still-battling forms, mace at the ready. The next words are flung over her shoulder. 

"I'm doing it because you were right." 

*** 

It took all four of us to finally stop Clark. J'onn and Diana to hold him down while Shayera blasted him with her mace and I prepared the Kryptonite restraints. It turns out they were not necessary. Somehow, J'onn got through to him, touched his mind and found where the boy scout from Smallville still existed. 

He broke down. They all wept that day. 

I stood in the shadows and said nothing. 

***

I sit in the Batcave, alone once again. 

Dick called me last week. He is doing well; he and Barbara have gotten married. He wanted to know how I would feel about them visiting. I told him to do whatever he likes. He said he might drop in sometime. 

I should call him back. 

Or I should tidy up the Cave. It is still an enormous mess from our battle weeks ago. Trays and computers upturned, shattered glass and steel, slabs of broken stone everywhere. Blood, too, from our more vicious fights. 

I should do something. Anything. But all I do is sit here and brood. 

We were wrong. 

I killed…

I don't remember how many I've killed. My hands are bloodied forever. 

"Forgive me," I whisper. I don't know who I'm talking to. Alfred? My parents? Dick and Barbara? 

My former teammates? 

The Lords have disbanded. Superman insisted on standing trial for what he termed his "crime against humanity". Not a jury in the world would convict him, but he insisted. He was found innocent, of course, but he has retreated from public view. I hope he does not become like me; there is too much good in him to give in to darkness. He has Lois, who still loves him despite the way he treated her. Perhaps she will be his guide back to life. 

My beard itches. I should shave. 

Shayera and Jon parted ways. He could not get over her betrayal in striking him over me. She returned to her home planet of Thanagar. I believe he is currently mustering up the courage to pursue her. I should talk to him. 

I should do many things. I haven't done any of them. 

J'onn disappeared somewhere in the wilderness. He said he needed time to think over everything that had happened, but that he would return. I miss him, sometimes. The alien was one of the few that could truly understand me. I should look for him. 

So many things to do. No desire to do anything at all. 

Diana…

She has disappeared. I am afraid that she returned to Themyscira to stand trial for her crimes against the Amazons. They will probably execute her; Amazons do not take kindly to the murder of their sisters. I should go rescue her. 

I just sit here. 

It has been weeks since the battle of the Lords. I have not bathed or eaten since then. I don't remember sleeping, but I must have dozed off at some point or another. 

A beeping catches my attention. Someone is trying to use the transporter. Normally a glance at the monitors would tell me who it is, but those were shattered during the brawl. I could walk over to the transporter to check. But I don't care enough to. 

Whoever it is, steps into the Cave. His tread is soft, almost inaudible. He walks toward my chair, hovers behind me. There is a faint scent of—

I turn my head to see Diana. 

***

We stare at each other for an eternity. Her hair is still short and she is wearing civilian clothes, neat and crisp. Her nose wrinkles. I must smell terrible. 

"Hello, Bruce," she finally says.

"What do you want?" 

"You need a bath." 

I stare at her. The faint smile on her face wavers and disappears.

"Bruce, I came here to…" she trails off.

We never spoke much before. We never needed to; we worked together well, both on the battlefield and in the bedroom. We understood each other; there was never a need to talk.

But now there is. 

I open my mouth. The words are hard to form; my brain is rusty and unused to speaking. 

"I'm glad to see you," I say. 

The smile on her face is brilliant. 

***

We talk for a long time. 

Sometime during our conversation she has taken my hand. I don't pull away. I tell myself it is because to do so would take too much effort. 

She sits next to me now, though I can see her nostrils flaring occasionally when she catches a whiff of my stench. In between those whiffs she tries desperately to hold her breath. It's almost funny. 

Finally, she breaks out laughing. I raise an eyebrow at her. 

"Bruce," she says, still giggling. "You need a bath." She stands and tugs at my arm. "Come," she orders. 

I allow her to lead me out of the Cave and into the Manor. The place is cold and lifeless. It smells musty and damp; mold is growing on the walls. 

Alfred would have a fit. 

She turns on all the lights, opens all the windows. She leads me to the master bedroom, where she draws a bath for me. 

She waits outside while I scrub weeks' worth of sweat and grime off my body. The water is grayish-brown when I am done. 

I stand at the mirror and stare at the gaunt, bearded face that looks back at me. I reach for a razor and begin shaving. This routine action is surprisingly comforting. I cut myself a few times, but nothing serious. When I finally emerge from the bathroom, I look somewhat human again. 

Her eyes widen when she sees me. "Hera," she breathes. She come to me and wraps her arms around my body. My own hands move tentatively to hold her. 

Her head is pressed against my shoulder. "I missed you, Bruce."

I find my voice. "I…missed you, too." 

She steps back, pokes a finger into my ribs. "When's the last time you ate?" 

It takes me a moment to remember. "Two weeks ago."

I'm not sure how to categorize the expression that briefly crosses her face. Anger? Surprise? Despair? 

"Bruce…"

I stare at her beautiful face, full of love and concern. Something inside me breaks. A sob wracks my body. 

Her face is wet, too. 

Before, the only way we had to release emotions was through physical means, in the battlefield or the bedroom. Fighting or fucking. All that we could do. 

Now there's another way. Words and tears spill out, a flood that cannot be dammed or stopped. 

We cry against each other for a long time. 

That night, we don't fuck. 

We make love. 

_End _


End file.
